International Relations
by BarbaraKaterina
Summary: When you're living in a world of goldfish, you just don't expect to suddenly meet another killer whale... /-/-/ Post-season 3, spoilers for everything. John and Mary make a couple of appearances too.
1. The Iceman

AN: So. My first multi-chaptered Sherlock fic. Let me say upfront that I have no idea how often I'll find the time to update this, and it's likely to be highly irregularly. I'm working on my MA thesis right now, and any fanfiction I write is exclusively as a way to relax. I _will_ finish this (the rough draft is already done), but there's not telling when. It shouldn't be long, though – the story is relatively short (12 chapters or so).

Anyway, I hope you'll like it. As is usual for me, I went with the realistic approach – if Mycroft found someone, how would it most likely come about? This is what my mind came up with as an answer to this question...

I don't own them. Or not him, certainly.

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As Miss Taylor was putting a report on his desk, Mycroft's eyes shot up and caught her cleavage. It was a very modest one, but enough to keep his attention for a couple of seconds. Internally, he sighed. It was time again.

„Miss Taylor," he said, „I will need the car again tonight."

„Of course, sir. Where are you going?"

„To town."

She just nodded and turned to her blackberry. He tied up all the work he had planned for the day, then rose, changed and exited the office, his assistant following him without a word. The car was waiting and without him having to say anything, the moment he got in, the wheels started to turn.

They were passing through the brightly lit town centre, Mycroft looking speculatively out of the window. It was around midnight and the evening crowd was beginning to thin slowly. Finally, he saw what he wanted. "Here," he said, and the driver obligingly stopped.

It was these evenings that Mycroft always regretted that his brother was the better actor of the two of them. Part of it, of course, was that Mycroft disliked acting so much – even pretending to be expressive seemed repulsive to him. Yet it had to be done, unless he wanted to end up like his brother in that embarrassing Bond Air affair. It was fairly obvious, really, and only Sherlock's absurdly inflated ego could make him miss this: if you repressed something, it was just going to show somewhere else. They were fairly extraordinary, the Holmes brothers, but they were still, regrettably, only human.

Mycroft entered the bar and it took him only a couple of seconds to spot a woman suitable for his needs. There was a wine glass in front of her, and she was currently being chatted up by a man, but she obviously didn't find him entirely satisfactorily – apart from all the other clues indicating that, she wouldn't be still sitting there otherwise, since this woman went out that evening for only one reason. A reason that suited Mycroft perfectly, as it was.

"May I?" He asked.

She smiled at him dazzlingly. "Of course, love."

The man on her other side started to protest, but Mycroft just looked at him scathingly. "Given your state of health, I wouldn't recommend you bother the lady any longer. Spreading infections knowingly is actually against the law, you know. You could get in serious trouble for that." He paused. "I have a very good memory for faces." And he raised his eyebrow.

The man muttered something incomprehensible and disappeared. The woman smiled again and said: "Your place or mine?"

Mycroft blinked twice. That made her smile even broader.

"I am the only woman in the bar that is clearly indicating by her clothes and body language that she is here for a one-night stand. If you noticed this guy's syphilis, I'm certain you noticed that. And you headed straight to me. And I like you. So?"

"My place." It was always his place, of course. Going home with an unknown woman was too risky. Not that they were really going to his home – but they were headed to a suitably impersonal flat that was in Mycroft's property.

As they got into a taxi and Mycroft gave the address, he turned to her and asked, indulging his curiosity: "If you knew he had syphilis, why didn't you send him on his way sooner?"

She shrugged. "It is marginally more amusing to sit in a bar being chatted up than to be alone, and it makes me seem more attractive. Besides, I might have gone with him if no one else appeared. Obviously there was no way I was going to touch any part of his body unprotected, but there are things we could have done and been reasonably safe. It was preferable to doing this again tomorrow, honestly."

Mycroft knew precisely what she meant. "It is very time consuming, isn't it?"

She nodded. "That's another reason why I went straight to the point with you. I could see you wouldn't really mind. And I so dislike wasting time."

They arrived to the flat, and she looked around curiously. "Nice," she said. "I'm glad you said we can go here. I have a place like this, naturally, but I'm afraid it's much smaller and less stylish." She raised her eyebrows. "It seems I've caught myself quite a fish today, if you'll forgive the uncomfortably ownership-implying metaphor."

During the speech, she followed him to the bedroom, getting out of her clothes on the way.

"It is quite all right," Mycroft replied, unbuttoning his trousers. "I am rather intrigued with my catch today, too." Apart from all the other things, it was interesting how she immediately spotted that this wasn't his real flat. 'A place like this,' indeed. But then again, he'd known she was observant since the moment she spotted his intention for the night in his body language. Identifying the syphilis could have just meant she was a doctor, but reading body language that easily was another thing entirely.

In response to his comment, she just laughed a little as she got out of the last piece of her clothing, and then she sprawled on the bed and looked at him. "I trust you understand that I need to get something out of this, too?"

"Naturally."

"Good."

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Afterwards, he let her have the shower first like the proper gentleman he was. While she was absent from the room, he pondered her. He was actually mildly intrigued, which didn't happen to him often. It was a good thing that he had such a good memory for faces, because he suddenly discovered that he wanted to know who she was. Just for curiosity's sake. Not that he planned to see her again – that would be absurd, actually, and would defeat the entire purpose of this – but he wanted to _know_.

He couldn't deny that she was very pleasant company, though. By the time his turn in the shower was over, she was already dressed and fully prepared to leave. No need to invent stories about early morning obligations to get her out. How very comfortable. When he met his car at the exact place where he'd left it, it was only a little over an hour since they had.

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The next day, it wasn't a difficult task to create her likeness in the police program for identification, and it was an even easier one to search the photo database for her look-alike. What he found, however, threw him off balance significantly.

The question was: was it a coincidence (but the Universe was rarely so lazy) or did they intentionally try to find him? And if so, why? He hadn't told her anything, he didn't indicate anything, she couldn't have seen anything, he knew that – it was entirely pointless. Was it some sort of preliminary experiment, or what?

He needed to know, and this time for serious reasons, not just out of curiosity – though thank God for that character trait, without it, he would never have realized.

He was just about to find her and send his people for her when his phone vibrated. The message read: "It would be nice if you could ask your people to let me in." Attached to it was a photo. Her photo.

So she had known. It had been intentional. He turned to Miss Taylor. "There is a woman outside, trying to gain access to my office. Let her in."

When his assistant came back in company of another woman, he blinked. Last night, he had sex with a black haired, dark eyed woman with crimson lips, in bright red dress, with huge eyes and cleavage that could make men faint. The woman who entered now was dressed in a perfectly fitting luxurious beige suit, her light brown hair pulled into a smooth bun at the nape of her neck, blue-gray eyes of unremarkable size hidden behind glasses. Yet there was no doubt.

He had expected this, of course, he didn't go hunting for sex in his three-piece suit either, but perhaps not that the change would be so perfect.

She greeted him with a nod. "Mr. Holmes."

"Miss Ollivier."

She smiled, though that smile was very different from those from last night. "It seems I caught myself a much bigger fish than I could have predicted."

Mycroft returned the insincere expression of mirth and replied: "Yes, that is the pivotal question, isn't it? Did you?"

"We are both asking ourselves the same things, it would seem. May I sit down?"

"By all means."

She did, and continued. "You know I didn't get anything yesterday. It would have been pointless."

"I could say the same about myself. And I don't believe in coincidences."

"Neither do I, much," she conceded, "but then again, is this really such a coincidence? We both appear to have the same approach to sexual encounters, so perhaps it was really only a matter of time till we came across each other."

"London is a big city," he said noncommittally.

"Yes. But the number of bars that stay open this late _is_ limited, and most people go there on Fridays and Saturdays," Miss Ollivier pointed out. "The chances still weren't too high, I admit that, but not as low as it would seem."

"I do confess that I don't see what you could have gained by yesterday's contact per se, but there are always preliminary experiments."

"You keep forgetting, Mr. Holmes, that I am facing the same questions you are."

He scoffed. "Do you honestly believe that I would have gone, personally, for a preliminary experiment?"

She tilted her head. "Forgive me, but I find it hard to interpret that sentence in any way that isn't absurdly self-centred on your part. I know you do your research. You know who I am."

"You could have gone personally because of your superior set of skills."

"The same questions, Mr. Holmes."

It was true. He knew that, of course. He'd hoped she didn't.

It was an impasse.

He could simply choose to trust, of course, but that didn't seem reasonable or safe.

Any kind of pressure was almost impossible to exert.

Another possible approach was repeated contact. That meant increased risk, of course. But he was confident that he could stay as neutral as the night before. And she might not.

"What are your plans for next Tuesday, Miss Ollivier?"

She smiled, the day-smile. "Yes, I think that would be best," she answered a slightly different question. "I have always rather enjoyed the principle of poker, but found the practice boring. Till next week, then, Mr. Holmes, and thank you for seeing me."

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AN: Mycroft was not the virgin brother, so apparently, he sometimes did have sex. When I tried to imagine how he'd go about it, this seemed most likely. Thoughts?


	2. One Of A Kind

AN: ...in which we discover who Miss Ollivier is. Well, not exactly. But we learn what Mycroft knows, anyway.

I still don't own any of them. Sir Edwin in particular would be apalled at such a notion, I think.

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The problem with meeting Miss Ollivier again, of course, was location.

The flat they'd used last week had been one that was known – known by only a few select individuals, but still, known – to be Mycroft's place for affairs.

Her coming to his official home address was impossible.

Another 'chance' meeting in a bar was too risky. It could catch attention.

In the end he'd allowed for her flat. It was a one-off solution, of course. If this went on longer, they'd have to think of something. And somehow, he feared that Miss Ollivier wouldn't be quite as easy to read as to make just one additional meeting sufficient.

She welcomed him in 'her place', smiling pleasantly, wearing her day-clothes.

"I think I'm going to like this," she said. "Not having to go to all that disguise bother is a huge relief."

Myroft knew precisely what she meant. He felt ridiculous every time he put on this kind of evening outfit. He felt like _Sherlock_. He even looked a bit like him, which was disconcerting.

"I envy you," he said.

She nodded in understanding.

"We'll have to arrange something that would allow us both equal advantages," she noted, getting undressed.

He gave her a quick smile to indicate his gratefulness and crawled to bed with her, kissing her lightly. She concentrated on his neck and then muttered, very quietly: "You know, it would really do things to my reputation if I said I slept with the British Goverment. It's a pity I can't tell anyone."

Ah, yes. Starting a conversation. Necessary, of course, if one hoped to gain any information at all. But risky, too. As he directed his mouth to her breasts, he replied: "I understand your plight. Claiming French Foreign Office as a conquest could certainly be interesting too, if I got into these sort of discussions in the first place."

She laughed. "I think I'm almost offended."

He smirked in understanding. "By me selecting that particular institution, or by the word French?"

She laughed again. "Both, actually."

"Well, you do live in the UK."

She bit him slightly. "Have you _been_ to Paris? C'hallaoued."

"I can't but agree with you there. If the capital of my own home country was like that I would most certainly elect to operate from elsewhere too," Mycroft stated, completely untruthfully of course, and watched her reaction. All he got was another laugh, and he judged this was quite enough risk-taking for one night, seeing that he wasn't getting anything. He didn't want _her_ to start asking questions. So he moved his attentions lower, and their dialogue ended.

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Well, that had been unsatisfactory, Mycroft thought. Not the sexual act itself – that was quite the opposite – but certainly the information-gathering part of the encounter.

He'd chosen to call her French Foreign Office on purpose, to see if she'd believe that was the scope of his knowledge, and if she'd react to the first adjective. She did neither, of course – not really – and so his second remark was aimed directly at discovering which was more important to her directly, and the second had the same purpose, only indirectly. His statement about living in the UK could have been read both as a reason for why he connected her just with the Foreign Office, and as a reason for calling her French – regional differences disappeared from abroad, he knew. Oh, how many times have the Scots been called English in France! He wanted to know what she'd pick. Of course, she'd replied equally ambiguously as he'd asked, her answer being for either or both of these. Not that he'd expected anything else. Miss Ollivier would remain a mystery for just a little longer.

It was known by many people that she was the most important person in the French Embassy in London, a similar kind of é_minence grise_ that Mycroft was in Whitehall. There were, however, speculations about whether she wasn't just a little more – in particular, whether she wasn't actually directing the entire foreign policy, or at the very least as far as Europe was concerned.

As soon as Mycroft met her and identified her, he'd known that was true, and was now wondering if she didn't direct even more that that – a speculation that he had heard, but that was usually laughed at.

The main reason no one believed that was that she lived in the UK. That was another objective of Mycroft's remark about it, and naturally her answer had just been a diversion. Yes, Mycroft wouldn't have wanted to live in Paris, but Mycroft wasn't French. Well, of course, she wouldn't call herself French either, and she likely honestly disliked the capital. But that was pure sentiment, and Mycroft doubted it would be enough to keep her from the most advantageous position for her work. She wouldn't have made it this far had she been this sentimental.

He tried to consider what would make him leave London for any period of time. Well, there was that stunt with going to Serbia to get his brother. So perhaps something sentimental after all? Perhaps there was someone she cared for, too, who was to be taken care of in London? A relative, a friend?

Or was it purely professional? Was there something particular the French wanted to achieve in London, so much so they'd send a relatively important puppet master (well, mistress) to attend to it personally?

And, most importantly, was any of those two options tied to her meeting Mycroft in a bar?

He'd gone through these thoughts while she was in the shower. As she got out, she asked: "In two weeks' time?"

That meant she was going to France. She did that rather frequently, one of the main clues that she didn't run only the Embassy – she wouldn't be leaving it so often if that was the case.

Likely, it meant she'd report their affair to her superiors. Well, that was all right. It was very reasonable, actually. Mycroft didn't really have a superior to speak of, but he reminded himself to mention it in front of the three people who actually knew about his flat for affairs because he told them and not because they spied on him that he was trying his luck. There was no better way to prevent any accusations of disloyalty to his country – absurd as they would have been.

It made the situation easier, too. It meant they didn't really have to hide quite so carefully.

"In two weeks, my place," he said.

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In accordance with his goal, when Mycroft next needed to speak with Edwin and Henry (Vernon will have to be taken care of some other time, he decided – having him together with either of those men was never a very good idea, let alone with both), he asked them for dinner and booked a table at The Ledbury. The irony was not lost on him.

They were done with work by dessert, and Henry, who has always been the most cordial of the three of them, sat back, sipped his wine and asked: "So, how are you, gentlemen? How is the new year so far?"

"Busy," replied Edwin succinctly.

"Isn't it always?" Henry wondered.

"Quite," Mycroft agreed. "But in fact, I have been thinking that it has not been so bad until now. That is bound to change, naturally, but so far, I have even found time for some relaxation."

"Moriarty should try harder, then, I gather?" Edwin quipped.

"I leave that business to my brother, thank you very much. He is what you might call an expert on this topic, after all."

"No, let's focus on the important part here," Henry jumped in as Edwin opened his mouth to reply something, probably something scathing about Sherlock. "You said relaxation, Mycroft? Are you ill?"

"No, he's just lying."

"I'm afraid Edwin caught me. Or rather, I wasn't entirely lying, but I was oversimplifying. I assume you remember my flat in Covent Garden?"

Henry smirked. "Oh, that kind of relaxation."

Edwin, on the other hand, frowned. "I though that was strictly non-business."

"It used to be, yes. But I came across an opportunity I simply could not pass up. You have heard of Miss Ollivier, of course?"

Edwin sat up straighter. "So, is she or isn't she?"

"She most certainly controls the foreign policy. I am now trying to ascertain whether she doesn't do more."

"Oh, so you're one of those, aren't you?"

Mycroft gave him a withering look. "I'd thank you not to call me one of anything. Except, perhaps, one of the people who adore this tartlet," he allowed, staring lovingly at his dessert.

This made Henry chuckle, and when both of his colleagues gave him looks, he shrugged and said: "Sorry. Just though Miss Ollivier wouldn't appreciate such a title."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and continued. "Anyway, you know I'm not given to believing in conspiracy theories," no, when there was a conspiracy, it was usually because he organized it personally, so it wasn't exactly a theory, "or anything much at all, really. Trust me, if you met her, you would be of the same opinion. Well...most likely."

This time, it was Edwin who looked briefly to the ceiling before saying: "I'd thank _you_ not to insinuate my intelligence is lesser than yours."

Mycroft managed to swallow the comment he burned to utter, but he exchanged a short look with Henry. This was the thing about these two of his closest colleagues: while Edwin was better at what he did, Henry was aware of his own limitations, which made him more dangerous in some ways. He knew very well that Mycroft's intellect was much superior, and so was more careful around him. Edwin, while generally more danger, was relatively easy to play.

"I'm interested in your updates about Miss Ollivier," Henry put the conversation back on track. "And allow me to say 'lucky bastard' for being able to conduct your observation in such a manner."

"I take it you've seen her, then?"

"Yes. She came to the palace with the ambassador a few times."

That was strange. "Why?"

"Search me. If we knew why she does the things she does, we wouldn't need your noble sacrifice, would we?"

Very true. More true than Henry knew, in fact.

His phone beeped at this moment, and he took it out to look at the text. Not many people texted him, and when they did, it was usually important, so he didn't have any qualms about reading it in front of his colleagues, even though it was a little impolite.

The name of the sender was AGRA, and the message said: "I've just given birth. Her name is Shirley, and we are both healthy."

Mycroft almost smiled. Good. His favourite assassin was going to be back to normal functioning soon. If the things with Miss Ollivier got too out of hand, he'd have someone to take care of it. The thought was calming.

Also, well..._Shirley_. Sherlock was going to be insufferably smug.

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AN: I really like Paris, I honestly do, but the Parisians are sometimes rather a lot to handle. Hence Mycroft's sentiment on the topic.

Also, The Ledbury is a French restaurant. Hence the irony.


	3. Initiative

AN: ...in which Sherlock makes an appearance. I don't own _him_ either.

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Mycroft's phone rang just as he was unbuttoning his shirt. His personal phone rang even less often than he got texts on it and it was always urgent, so he shot Mae Ollivier a short look as he fished it out of his pocket and looked at caller ID.

John Watson.

As was usual in these situations, he felt like someone poured a bucket of ice-cold water over his head, and his insides quenched in fear. He ignored it, again as usual, and picked up.

"Hello?"

"Mycroft, Sherlock has been kidnapped," the quiet voice of Dr. Watson sounded from his phone. In reality it was probably quite loud, by Mycroft had turned the volume as low as possible. Miss Ollivier didn't need to know everything. "I have no idea where he is. He managed to leave me a short message, but nothing about where they'd be taking him."

"I'll be there immediately."

There was really nothing else to be done, was there?

He put the phone back in his pocket and started to button up his shirt again, looking at Mae Ollivier as he did so. "I apologize," he said. "We will have to postpone our meeting."

"Of course," she replied. "And anyway, if it is a work related emergency, then I'm likely going to be needed at work too." She frowned a little. "Although it's strange they haven't contacted me yet, so maybe not..."

Mycroft cursed, internally, but very colourfully. There was no way he could not reveal his hand at least a little. She would find out that there was no real emergency very easily. Well, at least he might try to get something out of it too.

"No, no, this is a family matter. You know how it is."

She could have just been an extremely good actress, but he could swear she really did know. For one, there was absolutely no surprise on her face, and most people would be surprised to learn he cared about any of his family enough to treat it as such an emergency. And there did seem to be just a shade of...understanding. So that family member theory of his just might have some merit. He'd have to look into it after he rescued Sherlock.

"In a week's time?" She asked.

"Yes. I will be awaiting you."

And he left, heading to the awaiting black limousine.

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The matter with Sherlock turned out to be rather...fascinating. Mrs. Hudson, when applied to, explained that a client had come at this rather late hour, and Sherlock had left with her shortly afterwards. Then Dr. Watson got the text from Sherlock, stating only that he'd been kidnapped. Dr. Watson had rushed to 221B to discover that, indeed, there was no Sherlock in sight, at which point he'd called Mycroft. "I'm not sure," he said, "whether I should call Lestrade or not. I mean with all the secret stuff Sherlock's been involved in recently..."

"You did right to call me," Mycroft interrupted him. It could have been anyone, and so better keep it secret for now. It was probably no chance that this happened just when Mary was recovering from her childbirth, really, and that indicated someone _very_ well informed, which was disconcerting.

The first step, obviously, was to try and track Sherlock's phone. It was bound to be off, or destroyed, or thrown away somewhere, but it was still worth a try.

Apparently, it was in an old warehouse – ironically, the same one Mycroft sometimes used for his little kidnappings. Coincidence? Hardly.

He headed there immediately, Dr. Watson at his side.

What he found there astonished him.

There was Sherlock, shackled to a column, his legs tied together, gagged. Otherwise unharmed, and looking distinctly irritated. There was no trace of warning in his eyes when he spotted them, so apparently he was really alone.

This was either the most botched-up attempt at kidnapping in history, or...

The moment they took the gag out of his mouth, Sherlock asked: "What did they demand?"

"Nothing," his brother answered.

"What do you mean, nothing?"

"Just what I said. We received no demands. John just got your text-"

"My text?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Ah. I suppose you don't have your mobile phone with you, do you?"

"Mycroft, this was a kidnapping. No, surprisingly enough, they did not allow me my one call."

"Perhaps you should change your assumptions about kidnappers, then. John received a text from your phone stating that you were kidnapped, and in fact, you phone is somewhere..." Mycroft trailed off and dialled his number instead. It started to ring quite close by (_of course_ Sherlock would have _Tremble, indigne frère_ set as the melody for him), and the phone was discovered just behind another column.

"They were really quite bad at this, weren't they?" Dr. Watson remarked.

"No," Sherlock barked, irritated. "If they were, they wouldn't have got me in the first place. They were highly professional."

"What happened exactly?"

"A client came in with a mildly interesting case that required me to go with her. I halted a taxi. We got in, she gave the cabbie the address, he drove for a while, then she put a cloth with diethyl ether over my face and when I tried to get out, I found the cab doors were locked. When I tried to get to the driver to unlock them, the client proved to be a rather skilled wrestler and managed to hold me off long enough for me to succumb to the effects completely. I woke up here, bound and gagged."

"Simple, yet elegant," Mycroft remarked.

"But what was the point, if they didn't ask for anything and just let us find you that easily?" John wondered.

Mycroft was starting to have his suspicions about that. "What exactly was the – presumably fictional – case about?" He asked.

"This woman introduced herself as April Brittany, but that will obviously be a fake, so that won't tell you anything," Sherlock started. Mycroft smiled a little, internally. On the contrary, it told him everything he needed to know. He listened on nevertheless.

"The case was about a woman who left her high-profile job for mysterious, undisclosed reasons, only to settle for something markedly less important and well-paid within the same company, without experiencing any problems beforehand. She was to be single and unattached. The boss of my supposed client, actually. And now a lot of very curious people started to be interested in this woman, the boss. But they were just sniffing around, never contacting her directly. And she wasn't hiding or anything of the sort, so there could be no crime involved. Never mentioned anything about wanting to spend time with her family or something along those lines. She reportedly loved her job, and quit it very unexpectedly. So, this April just wanted to know what was going on, she was worried there were some threats involved...and she offered to take me to her boss' old office. Not the most thrilling case in my career, but I didn't see any obvious solution, so I went with her, having nothing better to do. But since this is certainly fully fictional, I do not see how it can tell you anything. Or are you going to insist that a fake story, like a disguise, is only ever a self-portrait?"

Mycroft wondered who told Sherlock that, though in this case it was certainly true. Or more precisely, it was a caricature. Really, it was a bit too obvious for his taste. Did she think he was stupid?

"On the contrary, brother dear, it tells me everything. Do not concern yourself with it, it was intended for me."

Sherlock was disgusted. "Could you tell your friends to leave me alone? I'm not interested in your games."

"I assure you I'll endeavour to make the message entirely clear."

He needed to start on his own offensive, immediately. He refused to be beaten by the _French_ – whatever she may call herself.

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A family member indeed. It wasn't really difficult to find, once he knew what to look for. Miss Ollivier's older sister had recently married Earl of Arundel, heir apparent to the Duke of Norfolk, the premier duke of the kingdom. She was, according to all records and pictures, an exceedingly charming woman – as testified by the fact that not only has she managed to charm the most coveted bachelor of the country with the exception of Prince Henry, she did it while being a foreigner and some years older than him. It had been quite a scandal when they announced their marriage a few years ago, Mycroft remembered.

Of course that would make someone like Mae Ollivier want to move to Britain.

Her sister, by all accounts, seemed to consider herself exceedingly clever in snatching such a husband and had no intention of letting him go. And, more importantly, seemed completely oblivious to the dangers this entailed. Hoards of agents have been on her for ages, British ones trying to find out if she was spying or not, and foreign ones trying to get her to spy. The new Countess of Arundel just cheerfully ignored them all in a very blasé way.

That meant one of two things. Either she was relatively stupid, or very clever. And on that depended her sister's intentions in the country, too.

If Countess of Arundel was clever, then her sister was here to receive the secret info, such as may be. If she was stupid, her sister was here to protect her.

Mycroft was deeply irritated every time he remembered that apparently no one had noticed the connection before. It hadn't been something he'd worked on, even the premier duke was too insignificant for him to concern himself with, let alone the heir apparent. They didn't have that much of an influence, so it really didn't matter. And he hadn't though Miss Ollivier was that important either, so he hadn't worked on it from that end. He couldn't do everything personally! And France was an ally, as unnatural as _that_ was, so keeping tabs on their people in Britain wasn't a primary concern. However, incompetence grated Mycroft, and the idea that someone looked at the Countess and her background, saw that she had a sister at the French embassy in London, a sister who gained the position only just around the time that relationship started, and didn't consider the fact noteworthy...well. He honestly feared for this country sometimes.

Well, now that Mae Ollivier was involved with him, he was determined to discover which was true. Especially because, while Count of Arundell didn't have that much power or information now, every door was open to him and he could potentially do a lot.

His personal guess was the clever Countess, simply because Mae Ollivier was the younger sister, and so such protective instincts were markedly less likely than had it been the other way round. Balance of probability suggested it. However, he wasn't one to rest his case without final proof.

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Meeting Miss Ollivier again, he wondered whether she'd be careful and stick to making as little conversation as possible in fear of betraying something. It would make these meetings pretty much useless, of course, but at the same time he understood that strategy. Safety was...safe.

At any rate, her last success had apparently emboldened her, because instead, as soon as she came in, she smiled at him and asked: "How is your brother?"

He'd been prepared for some feelers along these lines, of course, so he didn't show any emotion as he answered: "He is well, thank you. And how is the Countess?"

She raised her eyebrow, just a little bit. "Well, markedly better, I'd say, since she hasn't been kidnapped recently."

He blinked. He hadn't expected such an open admission. When he looked at her, however, she smiled innocently and said: "Dr. Watson's blog is quite fascinating, isn't it?"

He tilted his head to the side. "I believe that having my brother's colleague post everything he does on that blog gives me a distinct disadvantage in this game. Not to mention my brother's profession in itself. It makes him much more...accessible."

She only smiled pleasantly in reaction to his last remark, and then said: "I'm not sure about the first part. I mean, Rozzen is rather hunted by journalists..."

"Not quite the same thing."

"Perhaps not. But then again, information about our siblings isn't really why we are here, is it?"

"I don't know. You tell me."

She laughed. "Point taken, Mr. Holmes. Yes, maybe it is. But if it was, I wouldn't admit to it anyway, so what's the point, really?"

Evidently, this was going to be another of those meetings when he'd learn nothing. Some decisive action was required on his part. Meanwhile, at least the sex was good.

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Arranging a kidnapping of a countess would have been a rather complicated matter, but fortunately, Mycroft had other means at his disposal. Exactly as he expected, Mae Ollivier's phone rang at the very end of their next meeting.

The results, however, exceeded all his expectations.

Because after Miss Ollivier hung up, she turned to Mycroft and said, deadly serious: "I need your help."

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AN: _Tremble, indigne frère_ is an aria from an opera called _La mort d'Abel_. It's a piece sang by Cain, in which he vents his hatred for Abel. The whole thing is generally not considered a very good opera piece, and the aria, in spite of its dramatic-sounding name, is really rather bland and boring. In other words, from Sherlock's point of view, the perfect metaphor for Mycroft...


	4. Emergency

AN: Getting a little current in this one. I don't own anything in it.

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After keeping her eyes serious for a beat, Mae Ollivier smiled a very special smile, and as Mycroft looked at it, he realized what it meant.

She was very well aware that it was likely his doing.

However, if it wasn't, she would have an extremely hard time dealing with it herself. Mycroft took care to make the information about espionage very high level, and to have the names of the highest in MI5 mentioned. So she decided to show her hand anyway – either he could stop it immediately because it had been his work in the first place, or he would actually help her sister. The mere possibility that her sister could be at risk was enough for Miss Ollivier to show something that important about herself.

Of course it could be a bluff on her part, but Mycroft didn't think so. Not caring about one's family overly much was one thing, but then pretending one did and so putting them in the unnecessary danger of being used as leverage...that would simply be pointless cruelty.

Still, one more feeler couldn't do any harm.

"I believe I can help you easily, but I wonder...you weren't talking to your sister just now. Why didn't she ask for your help yourself?"

Miss Ollivier shot him an amused look. "Why do you ask that question?"

"To see which answer you'll pick," he replied. Obviously.

"Of course, but what I mean is, there aren't that many options. Either she doesn't know or she doesn't want to contact me, and if she doesn't want to contact me, it's either because she doesn't think I could be of help, or she doesn't want to bother me with it because she wants to protect me – or she doesn't want my help. You can easily find out the last is not the case, since I'm always invited to the castle or to her London house, or to various events. So it's really only between - am I protecting her, or is she protecting me? And I just asked for your help on her behalf, so what do you think I'd pick?"

"It is always good to have confirmation, if possible." And her choosing to number the possibilities in such a way was certainly telling of something, he'd just have to think a little about of what.

This time, her smile was a little mischievous as she said: "In that case, I will confuse you and say it's both."

He blinked, and she almost laughed outright at him. "She was an excellent big sister," she said then. "The best one in the world. Very caring."

Caring. Could be just a provocation and a deliberate red herring, since it showed precisely the opposite dynamics of the relationship than what she'd indicated previously, and what he'd deduced. Or could be true. If true, what would it indicate?

Here, again, he found that he couldn't go on without knowing how clever precisely the countess was. There was no help for it, he would have to come in personal touch with her.

Or maybe not exactly personal...

He dropped by at Baker Street the next day.

He found Sherlock lying on the couch, staring into the ceiling. Perfect. No case, then. He knew he wouldn't have had a chance if there had been a case.

Dr. Watson was sitting at his laptop, writing. Blogging, undoubtedly. He still found time to turn his head when Mycroft entered, and to say "hello".

"Good morning," he replied, not surprised in the slightest that his brother didn't say a word. Irritated, yes, but not surprised.

"I have a case for you."

That at least got Sherlock's attention. It was a sign of how far their relationship progressed since John Watson came in Sherlock's life that he didn't tell him to stick the case up his and leave. Sure, he was still willing to talk to him almost only if he was bringing something not boring - or if he could make jokes at his expense, like that time after Sherlock returned to London from his two-year exile - but at least he wasn't simply being contrary. There had been days – years – when he could be nothing but, towards Mycroft.

"Yes?" His brother said, turning his head.

"A woman will come to you, bringing you an interesting case of robbery. While it will likely amuse you, the main point is elsewhere. You need to find out how clever exactly the woman is. And I don't want your usual assumption that people in general are idiots. It may well be true, but we don't know in this case, and it is vital to find out. She may well pretend to be stupid, or only moderately intelligent, while being really highly above average. And it's vital that we know."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "So you can't give this to any of your own people because she might be conceivably cleverer than them, and then they wouldn't find out, would they? But the likelihood of her being cleverer than me is exceedingly small." John Watson just sighed. "Oh, very well. I accept the deal."

"But remember I only do this on the condition that you do honestly try you best."

"Yes, yes, Mycroft. When have I ever spoiled a game?"

"I'm sorry," Dr. Watson interrupted. "But I seem to be missing something. What game? What deal?"

Mycroft felt disinclined to answer, but Sherlock smirked. "My brother," he said, "just agreed to invent a little amusing game for me. Just like good old times, eh, blud? Make sure to give it your best."

"If I give it my best, brother mine, you will never find the solution, and then where will your reputation be?"

"So, just to make things clear," John Watson said, sounding uncertain, "the British Government will commit the robbery?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at that name for him, not for the first time and not for the last. Not that it wasn't true enough, but it sounded too melodramatic for his liking. "Technically," he remarked, "it cannot be termed robbery if the intention is not to rid the person in question of their belongings. Also, I will naturally not be personally involved in any way."

Really, what did the doctor think of him?

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The next time Mycroft's phone rang in the course of his meeting with Miss Ollivier, it was directly during the act, which would have made it an awkward situation if hers hadn't rang at the same time. Which meant that it was work, not Sherlock. Mycroft realized he was relieved and felt uncomfortable about it. The world could be at war, and he was relieved that his little brother wasn't hurt. He was uncomfortable, but not surprised.

He withdrew, picked up his phone and moved to a different room to give Miss Ollivier the privacy to answer hers. "Yes?" He said.

"They're going to send the military in," Vernon's voice announced from the other end.

In his head, Mycroft swore, long and creative.

"Well," he said aloud, "we've prepared for this alternative. You know the protocol."

"Yes. Just thought you'd want to know. Also, there's going to be an emergency meeting first thing in the morning, and they will want your security analysis."

"Of course. I will be there, naturally."

"See you, then."

"Good night," Mycroft said, even though he knew very well that Vernon would get very little sleep.

He hung up and as he walked back to the bedroom, he thought about how this could actually be an opportunity to know a bit more about Mae Ollivier's exact position. This time, her hand was forced, not his.

The theory was confirmed when he found her already beginning to dress. She half-turned to him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I have to go." She didn't explain a thing, but then she knew that he knew.

He just nodded.

"I'd like to arrange time for another meeting," she continued, "but I'm not certain when I'll be free again."

He smiled a little. "Feel free to just call me whenever the time suits you again, and we will arrange something." She nodded, and disappeared shortly after that.

Sitting in his limo on the way home, Mycroft thought about what he'd learned. This would be the final disproof for anyone who said that Miss Ollivier was simply the _éminence grise_ behind the embassy. She was very obviously going to France, had been called away urgently. But then, this could go both for Miss Foreign Office and for someone just a little more influential. What they had on their hands was a foreign policy problem, after all.

The most significant detail was probably that she couldn't say when she'd be back. That meant she wasn't just going for one consultation and to make sure things were in order, she was going to be needed the whole time this crisis lasted. It was interesting, but still not enough to decide. It was frustrating.

Mycroft turned his mind back to the possibility of another Cold War, because frankly, it was just easier and far more predictable.

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In the midst of her absence, he received a text from her. It just said: "Malaysia? WTH?"

He sighed, just a little. His feelings exactly. Really, he thought, couldn't the world just give him one crisis at a time? He supposed this was what he got for saying that this year was easy some weeks ago.

He replied with a simple "WTH indeed."

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It took Sherlock two weeks to solve the riddle.

Towards the end of week one, Mycroft got a text from John Watson. It said: "Unless you want to see your brother dead, make it simpler next time. He refuses to eat while on a case, and it's getting dangerous.

So he dropped by at 221B, threatening to tell Sherlock the solution unless he eats at least something. It made Sherlock incredibly sulky, of course, as any display of fraternal authority always did, but it was also effective, so Mycroft didn't worry about it too much.

When his brother finally proudly presented him with the solution, he had to restrain his urge to go and ruffle his hair in praise like he used to when Sherlock was four and Mycroft prepared puzzles for him. Instead, he only smiled a little and inclined his head.

"Very well," he said, "and my part of the deal?"

"Oh," his brother said, "she is dumb."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes. I mean, I suppose she's not as much of an idiot as most people – she is at least vaguely aware of what is going on around her, certainly aware of all those secret agents constantly at her – but that gives her absurd overconfidence as to her own abilities."

"I know of another person who would fit this description perfectly," Mycroft remarked.

"See, but that's where you're wrong – thanks to you, I could never be too overconfident. I always knew there were cleverer people than me out there – or at least one person – and so I could never feel truly invincible."

Dr. Watson made a small sound of horror, apparently imagining what Sherlock would have been like without his elder brother. Well, that sound of horror was entirely justified – without his brother, Sherlock would have been dead.

Sherlock continued: "This robbery has thrown her a little, but she thinks of robbers as a different class of people from her own, and so she doesn't feel threatened by their potential higher intelligence – which I believe shows her particular kind of stupidity rather well. She thinks she is invincible, just because she successfully managed to manipulate an aristocrat into marrying her."

"Not just an aristocrat, the future premier duke. Still, I take your point."

Another piece puzzle in place, then. Miss Ollivier was certainly here because of her sister, to protect her. At the same time, it was very possible that the countess really was caring, just as her sister had said. It would be an interesting dynamics, hard to imagine for Mycroft. Both sisters believing they were protecting the other, and the younger one being right. He could verify the caring part on countess' part easily, of course, and would do so, but he expected it would be confirmed.

This didn't exclude the possibility of some spying on the side, naturally, but it was definitely not Miss Ollivier's main motivation. Which was important – not because of the spying per se, the family really didn't know that much, but to understand the French Foreign Office who was possibly closer to being Le Gouvernement. These things always came in handy.

And he still didn't know if their meeting in that bar had been a chance. There was only one way to find that out: make her talk and hope she'd slip. He'd need to incorporate more conversation in their future meetings.

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AN: When I heard about the lost Malaysian airplane, it was such a mycroftian mystery that I knew I had to at least mention it somewhere.


	5. Two Of A Kind

AN: This is an important chapter. I still don't own it.

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Miss Ollivier called him some three weeks later and asked: "What are your plans for tonight, Mr. Holmes?"

They were changed accordingly, and after they agreed on her flat, she paused and then said: "Honestly, what were they _thinking_?"

It was the first reference to the business they dealt with at work between them, except that one text, and he smirked a little as he answered: "Idiots. Almost everyone is."

"I think we can agree who takes the prize in this conflict, though."

Mycroft thought so, too, but didn't really want to tip his hand. "Well the race _was_ tight."

"Perhaps we should have separate categories for men and women? Then it would be made simpler."

"Indeed. It is also of great comfort to know that neither of the winners were from our countries," he felt safe enough to say that much.

"Yes. But then, that has always been that particular country's prerogative, hasn't it?"

"Well, it's a big country," he replied, playing along with the stereotype, "there are bound to be more idiots than over here."

She didn't argue with his faulty mathematics, and by mutual silent agreement, they ended the call here, knowing that saying anything more might be unwise.

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When he got to her flat that evening, he could see that something was a little off about Miss Ollivier – her expression and bodily stance were different than usual. But it might have been just stress from being in Paris for so long, and so he ignored it for the moment, and, mindful of his resolution to have more conversation, he asked about her sister's jewellery instead – the case had been in the papers, after all, it was general knowledge.

She smiled at him pleasantly, the irregularities in her body language more pronounced now, and said: "Oh, yes, it is all in order now. So good your brother could be of assistance, wasn't it? I'm glad that he is doing so much public good, at least I don't have to feel conflicted about you forging an extremely dangerous criminal's resurrection on his account. I'm sure it was absolutely worth it."

Mycroft prided himself on never losing his composure and never letting anything show on his face. Sherlock was always the only one who could make him lose his calm. However, he was afraid he hadn't quite managed it this time.

Funnily enough, the first thought through his head was: definitely Le Gouvernement.

It was somewhat soothing, really, knowing that this woman did have a weakness – apart from her sister – and that was, obviously, her need to show of. Or possibly it was about revenge, at least a small one, for bothering her sister. He'd done so twice now, and could see how she would regard it as excessive – once had been turnaround, but she could easily have been irritated by the second time. Or perhaps it was a warning: don't mess with me. At any rate, she had just told him a lot, and she certainly knew it. It was interesting to know she thought it worth it.

His second thought was that at least he knew she couldn't prove it. Not that he thought she'd try, but still, it was better this way. He very shortly considered employing Mary, but discarded the thought quickly – it would cause far more problems than the small chance of her telling anyone about this was worth. The information was worth the most as a leverage against him, and so it would lose value if she told tales. No, she'd keep it private - but that was only a small consolation.

He was so impressed he was in a bit of a daze. He knew Sherlock had no clue about this. _Sherlock_ had no clue about this.

"I find it highly curious that you can afford to spend so much time in London." He said, at length.

Most would have considered this a non-sequitur, but then, she certainly wasn't most people. To paraphrase Sherlock, she wasn't la Republique.

She smiled in response. "You know very well that people like us are not so easily replaced."

Did that particular reaction tell him something about her, or was it a cleverly invented red herring?

"No," he said, "but they are difficult to do without."

"Oh, come on, Mr. Holmes. We live in the 21st century. There is no need to do without me just because I'm not on the continent."

"Precisely because we live in the 21st century, I wouldn't think any use of long-distance communication possible."

"Oh, of course the codes have to be arranged in person. But after that, it's plain sailing."

Yes, it would, wouldn't it? He would like to try and watch someone break a code _she_ invented.

"Well, your dedication to your family is certainly admirable."

"I think I just started this conversation by how outstanding yours was."

"It is good to know we have something in common."

"Oh, I'm sure it's more than just this, Mr. Holmes."

He knew very well it was.

He was torn. He could clearly see that this woman was at least on his brother's level, if not straight out his own equal, and therefore it wasn't really safe to keep meeting with her, because the chance of her letting something slip was balanced by his own chance of betraying himself.

On the other hand, now that he knew for certain that she was Le Gouvernement (he felt a little irritated at himself for getting into his brother's habit of calling people by the names of the institutions they controlled, but it just seemed he couldn't help it), it was impossible to just give this possibility up. These things didn't happen. People who had these kinds of positions always sat at the centre of their own networks, communicating through intermediaries, and never came in personal contact with each other.

It was too precious an opportunity to waste.

Of course is she had been Russian or Iranian or some such, he'd have had to, the risk would have been too high. But she was an ally, when all was said and done – spying between France and Britain these days was closer to a friendly competition than to a real conflict. The danger was low, the gain could be great.

The possibility of regularly speaking with someone who wasn't a goldfish and didn't have the character development of a teenager was welcome too, really, and he didn't want to let go of that potential the very moment he realized it, though he tried not to think about that part too much. After all, as he'd told Sherlock, he was _not lonely_.

"So, what did your brother think about my sister?" She asked.

"I'm not sure it would be polite to answer that question," Mycroft said apologetically. "He is a very harsh judge of people, and has no regard for rank."

She smirked almost mischievously. "Let's play a game, shall we? You write the things he said on a paper, and I write the things I think he said on another, and then we compare it."

Mycroft wanted to laugh. Here he was, in bedroom with Le Gouvernement (damn it, again), and they were playing games. He remembered his brother, and he found himself nodding.

He didn't hold anything back, and she was spot on on all accounts. Above-average intelligence, sense of invincibility, naive view of world in some aspects, mostly heartless.

"So is she caring, then?" He asked, only partly in joke.

"Of course. I wouldn't lie, would I?"

Mycroft almost laughed out loud at this. As much as he'd tried to avoid it, it seemed he really would have to meet the countess personally. Or rather, both sisters. He needed to observe the dynamics first hand to know what this was really about. Also, he had to admit he was curious. No sister of this woman could be completely uninteresting.

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To that end, he met with Vernon the following week. He patiently listened to him drone on about the recent great successes of MI5. The man really was good, even excellent at his job, and a little self-importance and pompousness was a small price to pay. When that was exhausted, Mycroft finally managed to get to what interested him: "I need a social event that will contain both Countess of Arundel and her sister, Miss Ollivier – the one from the embassy."

"Oh, I know which one. You still on that, then? It's been quite a while."

Mycroft noted in the back of his mind that this will soon become an issue. Aloud, he said: "Well, I am getting somewhere, but there is a lot where it came from, so it's unlikely I'll be done with this particular project any time soon."

"What have you discovered so far?"

"She has a hand in most of French policy, both foreign and domestic," Mycroft said, not wanting to divulge more at the moment.

Vernon whistled. "Well, that's certainly a worthy target, then. Want some assistance?"

Hell no. "No, I have it in hand, I think, but thank you nevertheless."

"If something came up, just let me know. She's bound to be a tough nut to crack."

"Especially as she's trying to crack me in turn, yes. But slowly and steadily is the way here," Mycroft pointed out.

"I guess you're right. I'll find you an event matching your request."

"Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Hey, anything for the Queen and Country, right?"

Right. Or almost anything.

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And so, two weeks later, he attended some Foreign Office garden party. Earl and Countess of Arundel were there, naturally, and so was the Countess' sister, chatting cheerfully to various guests. It was the first time since they met that Mycroft saw her outside of her work clothes, but the change wasn't very marked. The designer champagne dress she wore had a full skirt, as befitted the occasion, rather than pencil, as her suits were wont to, and there was a perfectly matched straw hat atop her head. She worked her way through to Mycroft when she spotted him, and said: "What a lovely surprise. I didn't take you for a social man."

"I'm not, by rule, but my duties sometimes do draw me out. It is not, however, my natural milieu."

"I can imagine. I wonder what particular duty could this have been?"

He knew very well that she knew, and so he smiled and said: "Oh, K thought this party could be of particular interest to me for some reason."

"I cannot imagine why." Then she grinned. "Now that you are here, however, can I introduce you to my sister?"

Mycroft blinked. "Isn't that a little...blunt?"

"Of me? _An heni na avantur netra, ne gounid ket," _she declared, making Mycroft thankful that he'd been studying Breton in her absence (it was quite a nice challenge, since he didn't know any other Celtic language) as he replied: „I'm sorry to correct you in your own field, but I believe the end of that proverb is actually ‚_nà koll nà gounid ne ra_,' perhaps giving you a valuable advice."

Her smile broadened. „I see you've done your homework. You're right, of course, but then I have no intention of loosing, so it is irrelevant. But back to the topic at hand, if you were concerned about my sister, then know that if done right, nothing is too blunt for her. I will not even comment on her husband. And besides, best catch her without him...like right now."

And so they approached the countess, Miss Ollivier beamed at her and said: "Oh, Rozzen, here you are! I've been wanting to introduce you to someone – you know how you told me about Sherlock Holmes, how he solved that incredibly complicated robbery for you? Well, this is his brother. I met him through work, and I thought I simply must introduce you."

"Lady Arundel," Mycroft inclined his head. "It's an honour."

"Oh, it's very nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. Your brother really is a genius, you know. If I'm ever in a tight spot like this again, I won't hesitate to use his services. I did, a little, you know – one never knows who one can trust – but those diamonds really were very precious, so I went to him in the end, and it paid off. I know Mae wishes I'd have told her about it, but really, what could you have done, cherie?"

Miss Ollivier smiled at her a little abashedly and says: "Well, you know, I know some people...through work...perhaps I could have been of use. I wish you would turn to me first if something like that happens. Please? Do that for me?" She laughed a little self-consciously. "I know I've already asked you that, but you didn't agree, and this is really important for me... Though I know that Mr. Holmes' brother is trustworthy, so I guess if I'm not available, you can turn to him."

The countess laughed indulgently. "Isn't she a dear?" She said. "Mae, I know you have an important job and all that, but I am a countess after all. I know quite a number of people myself. I assure you, if I went to Sherlock Holmes, it was because there was no other option. And I recommend you doing the same, if you're ever in a tight spot and I can't help out for some reason."

"Oh, I will, don't worry. But...why can't you promise you'll tell me, Rozzen? What could it hurt?"

"You, cherie. It could hurt you." Lady Arundel smiled. "But don't worry about that."

"You know I work in foreign relations. It's not like I've never dealt with an important piece of info in my life, is it?"

"Well, all the more reason not to add more to it," the countess replied, smiling condescendingly. Then she said: "My husband is calling me. I have to run. It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

And she was gone.

Miss Ollivier turned to him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

Mycroft replied by a slight twitch of his lips.

It was, frankly, fascinating. Also a little nauseating, to be honest.

Mae Ollivier lowered her IQ by about forty points when in company of her sister, apparently. Just the thought of doing something like that in front of Sherlock was abhorrent to him.

He was well aware that what he saw was a public front, but he was almost certain that rather pertained to the form than to the content of what he heard. He knew the sisters weren't quite that sugary towards each other in private, but there was no particular reason why Miss Ollivier would act so dumb in public if she didn't do so in private, when she didn't act that way outside her sister's company. Actually, that was a little puzzling. Didn't the people who knew Mae Ollivier from work get confused when they saw her act this way with her sister? Not the people who knew what she really was, but the common, everyday people she met at the embassy?

But then again, they likely didn't really see the two sisters together. But it was a complication, nevertheless, pretending something like this.

Obviously, it could also be meant only for him, an attempt to convince him they cooperated less tightly than they really did, that there was no spying going on, when in reality there was.

But he already knew that Mae Ollivier was protecting her sister, who likely thought it was the other way round. If Miss Ollivier acted with her real intelligence towards the countess, surely the older sister would have realized what the situation really was like? As even Sherlock admitted, she wasn't precisely stupid, compared to most people.

Except – what if the countess had played Sherlock, pretending to be so overconfident, when she really knew she was dependant on her sister? Possible, he supposed, but not very likely – it would mean a very detailed plan that had predicted his employ of Sherlock. Balance of probability was against it, but he kept it in his head as an alternate answer.

Back in the land of the more probable, the main question was: why did the younger sister downplay her real skills so much?

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AN: I'm sorry if I made a mess of the Breton – like Mycroft, I don't know any Celtic languages, so I had to rely on the internet resources entirely.

Also, about Moriarty: I am absolutely convinced this is the answer to his sudden reappearance, and am amazed that I haven't seen it in any fanfiction yet – many people I've talked to about this came to the same conclusion...


	6. To Be Yourself

AN: And there is a new character on the scene! Another one I don't own!

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Mycroft decided that the first step was simply asking Mae Ollivier about her strange habits around her sister. Not that there was any guarantee that she'd answer honestly, but her answer should tell him something, at any rate.

So he did so, the next time they saw each other.

As was her usual response, she smiled.

"I'm not really cleverer than my sister," she said, "at least not by much." That was a lie, but Mycroft listened on. "What I have that she lacks, however, is a certain...ability to see reality, I'd say, as melodramatic as that sounds. I'm not easily blinded by prejudice, influenced by wishful thinking, or any of the other things people are so wont to do. She was never like that, and one of the things she regularly gets blinded by is her own self-image, as your brother so rightly spotted. She is almost five years older than me, so it took some time before we got to the point where I could see that I'm her match. I believe that I was nine. In other words, I was also old enough to see that she didn't want to see it, and that in fact every proof of it caused her intense anxiety as she fought to ignore it. And, well, I didn't want to cause my sister anxiety, did I?" She shrugged, sitting down on the bed. "So I learned to hide it, better and better as time went. It makes it easier for her, and for me, frankly. She got rather unpleasant when she was upset. The fist time I won at chess was dreadful."

Mycroft sat down next to her and observed: "You're being rather open with me, Miss Ollivier. Why is that?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, turning her head to look at him. "Well, you are the first person I can talk to without feeling like I'm communicating with a lesser life form that I've ever met. Unless completely necessary - and there really wasn't anything new that you could use against me in what I've just said- , I don't want to spoil the pleasure by telling you absurd stories. I get enough of that at work."

How it was possible that some people could apparently admit to being lonely without it indicating some kind of weakness, Mycroft wondered.

He also wondered about his relationship with his brother, as compared to what he saw here. Most people would certainly call this one healthier, seeing how both sisters obviously cared for each other and knew it, and apparently could even express it to each other.

Yet it was built on a big lie.

Wasn't his relationship with Sherlock, tense as it was, preferable, because it was more honest?

But then again, was it really? Like Mae Ollivier, he was lying constantly too. Only not about his intelligence, he was lying about his...feelings for his brother. And unlike Miss Ollivier, he wasn't lying to save his brother pain, he was lying to save himself pain.

In his defence, though, he had tried to get rid of that lie. He was still trying. When he saw the progress their relationship had made thanks to Dr. Watson's gradual humanization of his brother, he did his best to make the lie at least smaller. He even told Sherlock, completely truthfully, that his loss would break his heart. Of course, it was easier to do when he knew his brother wouldn't believe it. But still. He was trying, step by small step, to make the lie go away. But there was a long way still ahead, he knew.

He also wondered how Countess of Arundel, that self-centred, naive creature, deserved such devoted love of her younger sister, while he had only his brother's contempt. But then again, he had known life wasn't fair for a very long time.

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A week later, when Mae Ollivier rang the door bell, Mycroft was on the phone with Vernon again, as distraught as he ever got. He let her in and tried to end the talk, but Vernon was difficult to stop, as usual, even though Mycroft was answering in monosyllables. He'd have liked to do a couple more calls, but it seemed he'd have to contend with texts later.

"Good evening," he greeted his companion. "Please accept my apology about this impoliteness."

"That's quite all right. I almost had to call it off today, and I might well have to go back to Paris for a while. And it's not even our interest as much as yours, so I'm almost surprised to see you here."

"There's only so much you can do during the night."

"True. And really, there is only so much you can do, period." She paused. "Don't you hate that feeling?"

"Passionately. Especially at the moment."

"Oh, yes. And to think there are two more weeks of this headache ahead of us...I know I'll have a stiff drink when it's over. You should probably have a bottle," she noted, her lip quirking up.

It certainly sounded tempting. "I'm afraid that I will be busy with emergency plans."

"Such defeatist attitude..."

Mycroft paused, hesitated, decided the question told her nothing, and asked: "Haven't you had the news today?"

She didn't bat an eyelash. "Yes. But the majority is still ahead."

"The bad kind of majority. Karnataka is over," he stated bluntly, because _of course_ she knew, so why not tell her, and – though his mind shied from the concept – he really wanted to vent.

"I _know_, Mr. Holmes. But you're not quite as powerless as all that, are you?"

"You're only as strong as your allies, especially in cases like these. You can't do everything personally."

"Don't I know it!" She sighed, then smirked: "So did you get to do a lot of shouting in the last couple of days then?"

"I never shout," Mycroft stated indignantly. Well, except at Sherlock, but his brother was the exception to everything.

"Your equivalent of it, then."

"...yes."

"I thought so. I think you're entitled to some relaxation today. Let me take the initiative."

She really was good at taking his mind off work, paradoxical as that was.

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A month later, Irene Adler came back.

It made Mycroft think of honesty and dishonesty in his relationship with his brother again.

He had known she was alive, of course. Oh, Sherlock covered his tracks on the spot pretty well, but he did fly to India in his own name and apparently spent a month there. For someone who hardly ever left London...Mycroft didn't think he had been really trying to fool him.

He came up with the story of her being in the witness protection program anyway, mainly to save his brother the trouble of deciding whether he should pretend to be mourning, and how to do it. Because he knew very well that the pretence had to be perfect. Sherlock normally wouldn't have bothered, but it would have been idiotic even for his brother to save someone's life and then blow their cover by not playing their part. So Mycroft just made it easier for him. He wasn't sure if he knew, but he supposed he did. He knew Mycroft was the smart one, after all.

He knew Irene Adler came back, because she waited for him one evening when he got home. Or rather, a woman with bright red hair, brown eyes, a slightly oriental tilt to her eyes and very full lips was waiting for him, standing just before him in front of his Mayfair house, but then she spoke and there was no doubt of it. Mycroft had a very good memory, and it included voices.

But then, she wasn't exactly trying to hide her identity, as evidenced by her words: "Good evening, Mr. Holmes...or should I say Iceman?"

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "I will invite you in and hear you out if you tell me where the breach in my security is."

"Oh, it isn't really a breach...all of your security guards have their guns pointed at me now. I just convinced them that they can let me wait here, where I will be in their plain sight, and I let them search me beforehand too. I explained we were old friends and I just wanted to talk to you and you were so hard to meet, what with security around your office, your phone number not being public, and everything...wouldn't it just be sad if I never spoke to you again because you got yourself this high in the hierarchy? They understood my plight and allowed me to stay here, on the understanding that if you didn't confirm my story of being an old friend, they would shoot me." She looked at him with one eyebrow raised in a way that was, again, typically hers.

She knew very well that dealing with the dead body would be too inconvenient for him, and besides, she might actually have something interesting to say. "It's all right," he said loudly. "She is indeed an...old friend. Though we're still having words later."

Taking Miss Adler inside, he asked: "I still don't see how you convinced them not to simply detain you and then present you to me."

She smiled. "I said how sad it would be that after so many years, the way you'd see me would be as a captive...I wanted the first impression to be a little better than that, I said. Oh, I spun quite a background story."

"I'm sure you did. You always could do that. Now, what brings you back to London? I wanted to say it was dangerous, but frankly with the changes to your face, I'm not sure it is...not many people could identify you the way Sherlock did, or thought he did."

She raised her eyebrow again. "Don't be naive. That method wouldn't work any more. I haven't just changed my face." Her smile broadened. "In fact, I had a very unfortunate accident some years ago, burning all of my fingers on a stove. Quite a misfortune, that." And she showed him her hands – on all of her fingertips, there were scars in place of skin. Effectively, she had no fingerprints.

"That must have affected sensitivity," he said, shuddering a little inside at such a sacrifice for saving one's life.

"Oh, yes. But one gets used to everything, you know. Especially when one knows what the alternative is."

They entered his drawing room and he offered her wine, which she gladly accepted.

"So, back to my question," he said then, "why are you back?"

"Moriarty is," she answered simply.

Oh. That.

He raised his eyebrow: "I had no idea you were so close."

She just laughed in response.

When the silence stretched, he said: "Would you consider being more specific?"

It grated him a little that he really didn't know why she was here of all places. He was never as enchanted as his brother by Irene Adler, but perhaps because of that, he understood her better than Sherlock did. It was also, quite plainly, because Mycroft knew more about sex.

His brother had assumed that Irene Adler lost that game all those years ago because she was in love with him.

That was, of course, absurd.

For one, Sherlock really didn't understand love, or even infatuation, or hadn't then, for all he tried to pretend otherwise. The physical signs he observed in Irene Adler were simply signs of sexual attraction. She had undoubtedly been attracted to him, fascinated by him even, just as he had been attracted to her and fascinated by her. But that was not the reason she made his name her phone password.

There were thousands of people around the world deeply, passionately in love with each other, attracted each other, and yet they didn't make each other's names their passwords. Not because their love or attraction wasn't strong enough.

No, it was because there was no reason. They weren't playing a game.

Irene Adler, much like his brother, saw all of her adventures in this world as one big game.

She made Sherlock's name her password because it was simply too good an opportunity to pass up.

It was so brilliant, so witty, such a perfect provocation, that she put her life on the line to do it.

If she had won, it would have been perfect – the password being Sherlock's name all the time and him not guessing, the password being such a complete expression what she felt and him not picking up on it because he was too oblivious to these kinds of things...

But she hadn't won.

She lost the game, though not her life, and his brother never fully realized why.

Mycroft had known all along, though. He personally wasn't really like that, he'd mostly turned away from that approach to life to pragmatism, but there were still traces of it in him, traces that showed every time he kidnapped John Watson or did something similar just to amuse himself.

And so he could understand.

Sherlock couldn't, because he had no idea what the effects of attraction or infatuation on someone were. Or at least, he hadn't known before his month-long holiday in India. Now, Mycroft knew, the situation was different. Now Sherlock understood more, and perhaps if he brought him here, he would be able to tell why Irene Adler was here. He was closer to her after all, knew her better, and was more like her in his approach to life.

But Mycroft hated to admit to any kind of lack of understanding, so he'd first try everything on his own before he'd call his brother in for help.

So he looked at Irene Adler and waited.

"I owe him," she said.

Mycroft waited some more.

She smiled, took a sip of her wine, and said: "After the Bond Air fiasco, I went to him. He'd promised he'd make me rich if I broke the code for him, which I did, after all. So I asked him for security, instead of the money he promised. He...wasn't very kind. It was as a direct result of his response to my plight that I ended up in that situation in Karachi. So, as I said...I owe him. I couldn't collect my debt the first time around, since I was too busy setting up my new identity, but now that he's back, I fully intend to settle that score."

Hmm.

This opened...possibilities.

He obviously could not tell her the truth.

However, she was far too dangerous as a loose canon to just let her go.

The obvious thing to do, if she intended to work against Moriarty, was to put her in touch with Sherlock.

Only...well. Only this was Sherlock and Irene Adler. That didn't end so well last time.

"Why didn't you go to my brother first?" He asked. "It almost seems he was right after all, in that plane. I thought he was just being overly melodramatic – it's one of his unfortunate tendencies."

She laughed in response. "Oh, he was certainly being melodramatic – measuring love from my pulse, I ask you. Even though, well" – she furrowed her brow, another gesture that was a clue to her former identity – "you of all people must know the feeling," she said without a trace of flattery. "When you are...unusual enough, it gets difficult to find anyone at all who'd catch your eye in the slightest. And once you do, they're difficult to forget."

To his own surprise, Mycroft realized that he indeed did know the feeling. The fact that he'd missed Sherlock terribly during his two years' absence aside – he was his brother, that didn't count – the idea of not seeing Mae Ollivier again caused him some discomfort. He could do it if it was necessary, of course – just as Irene Adler hadn't been in touch with his brother for three years – but the thought was unpleasant. Going back to the world of goldfish...well.

Sentiment, he wondered?

But then, was it?

He enjoyed a 2001 Saint-Emilion, and the idea of never drinking it again was unpleasant. Yet he didn't call it sentiment, did he?

He stored this material away for future thought and said: "If you intend to move against Moriarty, it would be logical to put you in touch with Sherlock. Can you handle that?"

She shot him an amused look. "Don't forget who you're speaking to. Irene Adler might be dead, but she isn't exactly dead. I could handle using him to bring the nation to its knees - and don't argue, I know you know it wasn't _love_ what made me loose that game in the end. I choose to speak with you first to make sure you wouldn't have me shot the moment I tried to approach your brother. And you have very good wine."

"Thank you. It certainly should be." He sighed. He knew it was inevitable. "Do you wish to spend the night?"

"Why, I thought you'd never ask!"

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AN: Irene Adler misquoting Whole Nine Yards doesn't seem exactly in character, but I just couldn't resist.

Also, a cliffhanger! Well, sort of. A very small one.


	7. Relationships

AN: Another important one. Still don't own any of them.

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Mycroft shook his head and opened his mouth to say something, but Irene Adler stopped him with her raised hand: "No, I know you're only offering me a bed in one of your spare rooms. Though I do wonder...why? Both of us know you'd let nothing slip, and would not become enamoured with me, or anything as ridiculous as that. So why not?"

"My brother would not appreciate it."

She raised her eyebrows. "We are hardly in a committed relationship."

"Nevertheless."

Her lips curled in a sardonic smile. "If Sherlock Holmes is going to mind me having sex with other people, then I'm not going to stay in London long."

"Oh, he doesn't," Mycroft assured her calmly. "He would mind me, though."

"Why?"

"Because he knows the other people don't matter."

A lazy grin spread over Miss Adler's face. "And you think you would?"

"That is immaterial," though in fact yes, he did think he would, though likely not as much as his brother. "We were discussing Sherlock's...sentiments."

She hesitated for a moment, then: "He wouldn't have to know."

Mycroft looked at her steadily for a long while, and then said: "Are you really that desperate to be able to claim that you bedded the most powerful man in England?" There wasn't a trace of boasting in his voice as he stated the simple truth.

She was smiling again. "No, I'm just curious. It's bound to be interesting. Most people are so boring, you know..."

If he was honest, Mycroft was curious too. She was the professional, after all. But it didn't change anything, and besides, he knew that for a large part, she was testing him, wanting to know how he'd react. And if he'd agreed, then later, if it was advantageous to her, she'd use his acquiescence to drive a wedge between him and Sherlock – well, even more of a wedge. If he'd needed additional reasons to refuse beside his...regard...for Sherlock, here they were. "I'm afraid you'll simply have to be disappointed." He paused, then changed the topic: "Who have been the 'most people' you've been...in touch with lately?"

"Oh, you know. Here and there."

He just looked at her.

"I'm not going to give you any details, you know that."

"Unless you give me at least something, a general idea, I'm afraid I'll be forced to make your life rather complicated."

"That could turn out a little different than you imagine – I am back to having some safety checks. But I do actually want to see Sherlock, and am well aware you could prevent that, so...I couldn't go back to being a professional, naturally, that would have been too obvious. So I became a mistress instead – of various people. Various important people. At crucial times of their lives."

The dots connected in Mycroft's head. "Ah. Isabel Xie."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes."

Isabel Xie had been the mistress of many prominent politicians, mostly South American, during the last two years. Men seemed to be obsessed by her, and what was even more interesting, secret services around the world seemed incapable of getting a clear picture of her face. Usually, there were big sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat; sometimes, it was her hair obscuring her face, or a shawl wrapped around it in such a way that nothing could really be seen. She never seemed to fly or cross any border officially (not under that name, at least, and somehow no one ever managed to follow her to a crossing to find out if there was some other), and they only got her name from her past lovers remembering her.

Mycroft never connected her with Miss Adler simply because the parts of her face he did see on the photos looked so unlike the woman he remembered.

He knew why now, of course.

It was a bit puzzling that he hadn't realized the connection the moment he saw Irene Adler standing in front of his house, but then, collagen lips all looked so very much alike, and there was never much more to be seen from Isabel Xie on all those pictures.

"In that case, may I make a business proposal?" She was going to be an information mine.

She smiled wolfishly. "I'll think about it," she said.

Mycroft suddenly had another reason to wish she'd stay with Sherlock for a while.

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Mycroft really wanted to know what Irene Adler's first meeting with Sherlock would go like, so he gave her a small microphone and a camera in fashionable glasses in the morning, politely pointing out that his threats still stood if she didn't cooperate, and she laughed and took it.

So that morning, he shut himself in his office and watched.

Irene was greeted at the door by Mary Watson, who was apparently visiting, and then he saw her turn into the room and call: "Sherlock, there is a woman here to visit you, says she knows you? Half-Asian, hair dyed red, lip job?"

Not the most flattering description of herself Irene Adler has ever heard, Mycroft was sure, yet she should be content. This was precisely the effect she had been going for.

He heard his brother reply something indistinguishable, and then Miss Adler was saying: "He did a case for me once."

Mary repeated the words loudly, and Mycroft could hear Sherlock approaching the door. "Oh, a client," he said, and then he got close enough to see the visitor.

Mycroft hadn't though his brother capable of such an expression, and he had seen him with Dr. Watson.

That complete, absolute happiness that showed in his eyes in that moment...he had to quench the strong jealous impulse to feel angry that this was never in his brother's eyes when he saw him. It was curious that it still bothered him, anyway – he should be used to it by now. Apparently, he wasn't. He remembered that time he got his brother back from Serbia, how he assumed Mycroft had enjoyed watching him getting hurt, even though he felt every blow like his own, and then the only one he could ask about was John Watson...Mycroft knew he hadn't really been at his best that day, and he was sorry, but thought that, all things considered, he could be given some reprieve.

While these thoughts passed through his head, his brother got his expression under control, turned to Mary and said: "Do you think you could give us a...moment?"

She just smiled. "Oh, of course! I was leaving already anyway!" She lied blatantly, picked up Shirley sleeping in a basket, and disappeared.

Mycroft watched Sherlock turn to Irene Adler, then. "You are...back." He said.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I thought you could use some help against Jim, seeing that I doubt you want to spend another two years dead at the end of this round."

"You're one to talk."

Mycroft's phone beeped at this moment. Noting that it was from Mary, he just noded in satisfaction at her speed and went back to watching.

"Yes, well, I did learn my lesson," Miss Adler replied. "This time I'm here to fight with you, not against you."

Sherlock sighed. "Things were easier in the Marshall Islands, weren't they?" Ah, so that's where they'd gone, Mycroft thought. "No loyalty issues. Here, however..."

Mycroft was extremely proud of his brother. It appeared he had learned his lesson, too.

Irene Adler looked out of a window, regaling Mycroft with the sight of Baker Street he wasn't interested in in the slightest. "I don't have any way to prove myself," she admitted. "But you know I don't have any reason to help Moriarty."

"A chance at your old life back?"

"Not even he is that powerful. Besides, I have gotten somewhere in those three years. I don't feel quite that desperate."

"If you have gotten somewhere, why come back here?"

And again Mycroft was struck by how much he understood this woman, the closest his brother had ever had to a love. He knew why she'd come back, and he understood precisely why she didn't want to say. He had been almost grateful to that terrorist group for targeting London, a year ago, because it gave him a good reason to go and get his brother from Serbia without having to say anything of the sort. Irene Adler had wanted to use Moriarty in the same way, but it didn't work.

"You are right, it was easier in the Marshall Islands," she said.

There was a long silence, then Sherlock said carefully. "Even given that I can't trust you...I believe that if your intention were to kill me or incapacitate me to deliver me to Moriarty, you'd have already done so. So the plan would have rather be to learn of, and disturb, my plans. Which means that I'm in no immediate danger."

She turned to him then, and Mycroft could feel her eyebrow raising in her tone, as she said: "Brilliant work, Mr. Consulting Detective. But," she added, stepping closer to him, "I believe you forgot to take one kind of danger into account..." and then, whispering into his ear, "can I take your pulse?"

He took of her glasses, and Mycroft turned off the microphone on his end soon after that.

He looked at that message from Mary. It said: "There's a woman in Sherlock's flat, seems a romantic interest, improbable as that sounds. Any orders?"

He quickly typed back: "Stand down. I know about her," and went back to his work with a sigh.

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Entirely as expected, Mary turned up in Mycroft's office that afternoon, and very reasonably demanded an explanation. She was right: she could hardly be expected to do her job well if she lacked crucial information.

"She was something of an unexpected factor," he explained. "She only turned up last night."

"Yes, but Sherlock obviously knows her from the past. Why have I never heard of her?"

"Oh, but you have." Mycroft paused, but there was no avoiding this. She'd know very soon from John anyway. "That was Irene Adler."

"That was...what? Wasn't she supposed to be dead too? Does anybody actually stay dead around here?"

Mycroft almost chuckled. "Not many people, no. No one important. But anyway, I always knew she wasn't dead – Sherlock saved her life."

Mary frowned. "You never told John."

"No. We needed to protect her cover. I never even talked about it with Sherlock, though I assume he knew I knew – he didn't really try that hard to mask it."

"You know, sometimes I wonder why John even talks to either of you any more."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "This one was at least partly his fault. Sherlock left for a month to save Miss Adler – Sherlock, who never leaves London – and I told John the approximate time of Adler's supposed death. He should have been able to put two and two together."

Mary looked at him incredulously. "Oh yes, how stupid of him to trust his best friend and his brother."

"You know, coming from you, I find that remark rather ironic."

She laughed. "Point taken. That just makes me feel sorrier about John, though. No one trustworthy around him at all..."

"But we are all trustworthy. We just don't always speak the truth."

Mrs. Watson smiled at his distinction. "So," she said then, "I'm to just let your brother spend time with Irene Adler, of all people?"

"Yes. I know his taste could use some improvement, but this is who he chose, and he would never forgive me – or get over it entirely – if I intervened. So you don't have to concern yourself with her, but don't worry, I have her watched."

"I never doubted that."

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Mycroft was not entirely surprised that, during his next meeting with Mae Ollivier, she smiled at him and said: "I've heard that you had a lady visitor overnight recently. Should I be jealous?"

"I must have missed the moment when our relationship, such as it is, progressed to the point where jealousy is an acceptable emotion."

"Jealousy is never an acceptable emotion," she remarked, making him think of his anger towards John Watson or Irene Adler. "But I have to admit that I'm intrigued."

"I do agree that such behaviour on my part is rather unusual."

"Oh well, keep your secrets. Though I'd still like to know why I was never invited to your real house, and she was."

"This particular lady can be very persuasive, and persistent."

Miss Ollivier raised her eyebrow. "Perhaps I should try that too."

Unfortunately, there was no way he'd ever invite Mae Ollivier to his house. Even though...people _were_ starting to talk. Vernon had been the first, but he had heard mentions about how long his affair was taking from Henry and Edwin too. There weren't any accusations yet, but he knew it was only a matter of time. He also knew it was the secrecy doing this – as irrational as it was, the fact that it wasn't an official relationship made people assume he was doing something clandestine, like betraying his country. So perhaps there were some advantages to it...

"Perhaps I might consider yielding."

She blinked, apparently shocked. For a good reason, too.

He explained: "We have both let some people know about this relationship, as a basic security precaution, but it has been going on for a long time. There is actually no reason why we couldn't make this an official...commitment. And there are some reasons to do it."

She considered. "Appearing in public would mean..."

"...higher risk for both of us, yes, because we each could be used as leverage against the other. But do you honestly believe that anyone who knows we're important would think we were...emotionally attached? Especially if they knew the reason for this relationship? The danger is minimal."

She nodded carefully. "And there are benefits, yes. It would stop the gossip, of course, but also, frankly, it would be less bother. Getting away to semi-secret flats is time-consuming."

"There would be privacy issues," he pointed out, not completely convinced of this plan himself.

"Yes..." She paused. "Obviously I can't afford to have you roaming freely in my house, or you me in yours. But we would be pretending to be a freshly formed couple, so no living together would be expected. Just one staying overnight in the other's house from time to time. We could probably keep an eye on each other – and don't forget that for every opportunity for me to search your house, you'd get one in mine."

That was certainly a lure difficult to resist. And he could move some of the sensitive things to his club or to his office, anyway – though of course she would likely do the same. He could only hope that the Embassy was smaller and she didn't have a club, but then again, she did have an aristocratic sister. Though...no. There was no way Miss Ollivier would leave anything the least bit sensitive in reach of all those secret agents constantly trying to earn their bread around her sister.

There was one other thing that bothered him about it.

"It would also entail a lot of...pretending."

It was one of the things he really enjoyed about her company, that he didn't have to pretend much.

Surprisingly, she shook her head. "That's the first thing I thought of, but not really. No one who knows us would take us for the PDA kid of people," Mycroft frowned just hearing the acronym, the idea was too distasteful, and she smiled seemingly against herself, "so I think that, all things considered, we could act mostly normal. Perhaps some hand-holding in a restaurant, but only very exceptionally." She paused. "I'd have to think it through."

"Of course. It was an immediate idea, so I require time myself. Will a week suffice?"

"I think it should do just fine."

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AN: Mycroft's and Mary's business relationship, as presented here, was established in my stories Making A Deal and Getting A Job, in case you're interested. :)

Also, I'm writing a story about Irene and Sherlock in Karachi and after to explain how they got to this point in their relationship, but it's insanely difficult, because they both have to be a bit out of character (Irene being vulnerable and Sherlock being involved), and it's really hard to walk the line between just enough OOC and too much...so I don't actually know if it will ever be finished, but let me just say that by Sherlock's behavior towards Janine in HLV, even though he didn't sleep with her, I think it's perfectly obvious that he has already been in a physical relationship before (though maybe hasn't gone 'all the way') – he's too comfortable with her around. So the relationship must have happened in Karachi and after...


	8. The Bait

AN: I've gotten to the chapters that aren't finished and need a lot of work, so updates are going to be much less frequent now, as I'm sure you noticed.

There might be some other stories posted, though. For example, I have a new(ish) one-shot about the third Holmes brother, titled What Happened to the Other One, for anyone who's interested.

I don't own them, but I certainly wish I lived their lives sometimes.

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Thinking about his own proposition, Mycroft was inclined to agree, and that worried him a little. Was sentiment getting involved?

As a quick test, he imagined Mae Ollivier dead. It wasn't a pleasant concept, but then no death was a pleasant concept, and so he drew up the idea of Sherlock's death for comparison. The absolute chasm between the two emotions convinced him fully that no, there was no caring involved in his relationship with Miss Ollivier. That calmed him down considerably, and he was able to return to pondering the matter with a cold head.

The advantages were very relevant, and the only real disadvantage was the partial loss of privacy that would come with someone he couldn't trust being in his flat. But then, Mycroft wasn't sentimental and it wasn't like he had his bedroom filled with personal tokens that would give Miss Ollivier relevant clues about him. Besides, she already knew the most important thing there was to know, so this was mainly about work secrets, and these would be easy to keep from her eyes, even in his flat.

Mycroft smirked a little as he remembered that it had been remarked upon many times by his colleagues that the only status symbol he was missing was a beautiful girlfriend dressed to display his wealth. He wondered how Mae Ollivier would like that role in particular – but then again, he would be her status symbol too, he supposed. That was a strange thought.

He had effectively made a decision already when a message from Miss Ollivier arrived. It was a photo of a desk, apparently her work desk, covered by files, and with a document open on the computer screen. Only it was so blurred nothing could be seen of it. The accompanying message read: "I decided I'm all for it, so here's a little incentive to convince you so that I get my way. Look at my beautiful flat, who wouldn't want to see that!"

Mycroft actually laughed aloud, a little startled. It was ingenious. If someone intercepted the message (unlikely, but always possible), they'd assume she meant the beautiful view of the Thames from her window, an advantage he didn't have in Mayfair. After all, that was what the focus of the photo was on. Mycroft knew better, however.

Ironically enough, it really was this text that cemented his decision. If one could mix work and entertainment in such a perfect way, one really shouldn't resist. And you didn't come across a sense of humour like that every day.

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Their first official date took place in Dinner, one of Mycroft's favourite restaurants in town. Miss Ollivier – or Mae, as he was now obliged to call her – seemed appreciative, though he didn't doubt she'd been there many times already. He was appreciative too. The change in her clothes was more marked this time, though it was still as perfect as usual. But it was evening, after all, and so her suit was replaced by a little black number that hugged her figure very tightly (though the skirt still ended just bellow the knees – it wouldn't do to be improper), and the usual pearls were replaced by the more shiny diamonds. Her hair, too, was done more intricately than usual, though he lacked the knowledge to name the chingon properly, and she was wearing evening make-up. All in all, Mycroft, ever the lover of aesthetics, was already seeing one more upside to this arrangement. They really should go to the opera some time, just to see what she'd wear.

"Should we tell our families about this?" He asked her, leaving all the pro and con arguments unsaid. She could fill them in herself, and they were in a public place.

"My sister is going to find out one way or another," she commented.

"Is she having you watched?" Mycroft asked, pretending to mean it as a joke.

"Well, she doesn't follow me with surveillance cameras," she answered, clearly mentally adding 'unlike someone else I know who does this to his sibling,' "but she does keep tabs. It would be easy enough to avoid, but not in a way we'd like."

"Oh?"

"It would be enough to go into low-price establishments."

Oh. Not in a way they'd like indeed.

"So, your sister. Will she want to meet me, officially?"

"Undoubtedly. And more importantly, she will want to meet your brother again some day, arguing that we're family. He caught her eye, you know."

Mycroft remembered Miss Adler's words: 'if you're unusual enough...' The countess wasn't really that unusual, certainly no measure for Irene Adler herself, but apparently, enough was the key word here.

"So that means telling my brother."

"Yes. And not only that, but I'll have to meet him at least once before – Rozzen isn't stupid in this kind of thing, she could tell if we saw each other for the first time."

Mycroft sighed very, very deeply. "Well," he said, "at least if we break up, everyone will understand why."

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Later that night, as they shared a glass of 1977 vintage port in his flat, he commented: "It's good to see that you have at least something in common with your sister."

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Why, your tendency to manipulate people into serious relationships, of course."

She burst out laughing, quite gratifyingly, and couldn't stop for some time. When she finally did, she said: "Rozzen would be quite offended, you know, at you comparing her to me in this respect. I assure you that her methods are markedly more subtle. She is a professional if I ever saw one."

"Yes, she'd have to be."

Mae tilted her head to the side. "I remember that ball where she met Earl of Arundel. It was her masterpiece, of course, but I still cannot help to feel a bit sorry for her being out of the game, so to speak. I was really watching a master at work that day, and it seems too sad that she'll never get to exercise these skills again."

"Are you certain that she won't?" Mycroft probed, curious, both personally and professionally.

Mae shrugged. "I know she is firmly determined not to. I admit there is a slight possibility that she could one day, precisely because she'd miss it so much, but on balance, I think not. It was a game to her, yes, but one played with a serious purpose, and she wouldn't jeopardise everything she's ever worked for. She's too pragmatic for that."

Mycroft thought of Irene Adler again.

"Why did she chose Earl of Arundel of all people? It's not like you don't have enough prominent people in France."

"Yes, but no actual nobility any more, not effectively."

"Your ambassador's family would not thank you for that."

She smiled. "You know what I meant. Though I certainly do consider Madame's ancestry a key benefit of my job."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. Obviously it was partly a joke, but still. "Are you and your sister really that romantic?" He could understand the appreciation for rank, partly, but not enough to really influence his decisions.

Mae shook her head. "It's not just about that. Our family, we used to be nobility, before the _Galloued_ took it away from us during their revolutions, along with our autonomy."

"Ha," Mycroft interrupted her, unable to resist the jibe, "you can hardly blame the French for what the _Club Breton_ did, can you?"

She just waved her hand. "Our poor boys were overpowered soon enough. You can't blame them for founding what was a sensible club at the time. Anyway, as I was saying, we used to be nobility, and it's always jarred Rozzen more than it irritated me. I think she sees her marriage as taking back what is hers in a way."

He smirked. "It is a great relief to know that the future premier duke did not marry a plebeian after all."

Mae laughed. "Well, we were extremely insignificant nobility, so really, I'm not certain it counts. And you know, we're still...French. I'm sure that overshadows everything else."

"You admitting to being French? This is really a memorable day."

"Well, I do live in Britain, after all."

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The countess did indeed find out about them, within a week, and insisted on a visit soon. "Allons donc, cherie," she'd reportedly said, "tu n'es pas plus une adolescente, pour avoir peur d'amener votre petit ami à la maison. D'ailleurs, je l'ai déjà rencontré. "

Mycroft was a little surprised they didn't speak Breton to each other. But then again, it might have all been part of a false image of her sister Mae was trying to plant, so what did he know, really.

Also, the idea of him being called someone's _petit ami_ was unspeakably offensive. He was sure the Bretons had a better word for it – really, anything was better.

That in turn required a visit to Sherlock, because they knew the countess would want to know what the detective thought about their relationship, and Mycroft, as much as it irritated him, frankly just couldn't predict that part.

So he stopped by at 221B to arrange things.

The first thing he saw after he came in was a half-naked Irene Adler. It was a good things he was having regular sex now, really, he thought. That allowed him to remain perfectly unperturbed.

"Good afternoon," he said, "is my brother in?"

"Oh yes," she said lazily. "I think he's in bed. Sherlock?" She called, and a sleepy "yes?" came back.

"Your brother's here."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know, do I? Ask him."

"But you're already there."

"Yes, but speaking is work too," and she stretched on the sofa.

"Oh for God's sake, Sherlock," Mycroft joined in, slightly disbelieving – his brother was never without energy, "come out or I'll come in to your bedroom."

"Charming as always, aren't you?" Sherlock grumbled, but Mycroft could hear him getting up.

"I need to talk to you."

"What is it, a case?" Sherlock asked, exiting his bedroom, quite unselfconsciously naked. Mycroft sighed internally.

"No. I need you to spare one evening for me, for a...social occasion."

"Boring."

"Perhaps, but necessary."

"Mycroft, not even you do social occasions, so what the hell possessed you to not only want to participate in one, but bring me with you."

Mycroft took a deep breath, and then said: "I want you to meet my girlfriend."

The shock on his brother's face, he thought, was really quite worth all that trouble of a public relationship.

"So..." Sherlock said after a while, "I see you've found yourself a goldfish?"

Mycroft's face suddenly split into a wide grin. It obviously unnerved Sherlock, which put his brother in an even better mood.

"I'm almost tempted," he said, "to let you go in that meeting with that assumption. However, matters of national security are at stake, so unfortunately, it cannot be allowed." He paused. "The young lady in question in your friend the countess's sister. Her much, much cleverer sister."

"Ah, so that's why you were interested in the countess. I have wondered."

"Yes."

"The countess was French, so her sister is French too, so that's why national security could be at stake...a clever French national...and Mycroft dating her...oh, brother mine, and I'd almost began to hope that you had a real girlfriend."

"I seem to remember reading something in the papers recently about a detective seducing a poor girl to get to her boss, even proposing to her for that purpose," Irene Adler's voice drifted to them, slightly mocking.

"Not fair!" Cried Sherlock. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"Says who?"

"Oh, yes," Mycroft remembered. "As much as I regret it, Miss Adler, I'm afraid you can't quite accompany my brother. I'm not sure how much the lady in question knows about you, but I'm unwilling to risk it."

"Perfectly understandable," the lazy voice noted, completely calm.

"Really, Mycroft," Sherlock went on, "I thought you were the one with manners. Don't you feel ashamed, using a lady like that?"

This time, Mycroft's and Irene Adler's laugher sounded simultaneously, which again seemed to unnerve Sherlock.

"You really do think you're the only intelligent person alive, don't you?" Mycroft observed. "Much cleverer than the countess, I said."

"Oh. She knows you're using her."

"Obviously."

"And she's using you in turn."

"Yes."

Sherlock smirked. "I think I'll go after all. This sounds like fun."

Cold dread started to spread over Mycroft.

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AN: I really, really wanted someone to call Mycroft someone's petit-ami. The idea just boggles the mind.


End file.
